


A Collapsing Everyday

by Zelos



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Scott, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Depression, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Leadership, Missing Scene, Post-Season/Series 05 Finale, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Responsibility, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-09 02:25:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17398226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zelos/pseuds/Zelos
Summary: He has been part beast ever since the bite. Every day, he could feel pieces of himself sloughing off like eschar from a wound, the alpha taking his place.This wasn’t a fairytale. There would be no kiss to lift the curse or still his shaking bones.Post-season 5b, Scott struggles with the path he has taken and the burden he continues to take. Even those who understand can’t necessarily relate.





	A Collapsing Everyday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Whispering_Sumire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whispering_Sumire/gifts).



“Scott?”

Scott blinked back to attention. The head librarian tsked between her teeth, looking decidedly unimpressed. “You’ve been staring at that row of books for ten minutes. Is there something I can help you find?”

“N-no, I’m fine.” He clutched his stack of books like a shield, looked down, looked away, anywhere but those prying eyes. “I, I just—I want to check these out.”

She hummed and plucked a book between two manicured claws. “ _The Book of Yokai: Mysterious Creatures of Japanese Folklore?_ ”

“It’s for history class.” The words reverberated between his teeth. “Extra credit.”

She considered that for a moment, looking him up and down. It was an idle motion, just south of scolding. “You come here every lunch hour, but I never see you actually write anything.”

Scott closed his eyes before they reddened. “Can I check these out.” It came out stony.

“All right, fine. But I think you’re over your withdrawal limit.” She turned for the stairs with an imperious air. Her heels clattered loudly on too-clean linoleum, freshly mopped and waxed. “And I know _Kitsune-Tsuki_ is overdue.”

He followed her slowly, books clutched tight to his chest. His fingers traced familiar initials into hardbacks, little triangles of grief.

 

There were few certainties in life. Death and taxes were the ones adults cited with any regularity. His mom had stopped mentioning the former, nowadays.

On the one hand, there was some value in keeping even a fragment of normalcy; he could worry about mundane things like tests and homework and (oh god, so many) bills coming due. On the other hand, no one—but for a very few, all of whom were still hurting in their own ways—even knew what had happened, whom they had lost.

If the others knew, he would break. When they didn’t…maybe he still would.

Twelve feet below them in the Hale vault was a little box, laid carefully in front of the emergency safe. Kira’s tail and one of Allison’s arrowheads nestled side by side on black velvet, tucked safe and hidden away.

Derek wasn’t around to complain (and Scott didn’t think he would). Malia had opened the vault for him. And Peter…well, Malia had said that if Peter had a problem (and didn’t rot in Eichen first), he could talk to her. And she’d kick his ass to hell. Again.

The sheet of paper rustled noisily as it slid across Scott’s lab bench. “Come see me after class.” Beside him, Stiles made a pinched face as he stared at his D-, a matched pair with Scott’s.

 _I_ _’m worried about you_ , the teachers said, a litany of blurry faces. _Is something wrong? Should we call your mother? Your grades are slipping, can we help?_

What could he say? _I can_ _’t tell you I can’t tell you I can’t tell you._ What could any of them say, when their own parents—the ones who knew—said things like _if you can do something to help, then you do it. You have to_?

“Scott?”

Scott started in his seat. His science teacher frowned down at him, annoyance warring with concern. Behind him, someone snickered.

“Sorry.” The light had been flickering, that was all. A fluorescent light, even—the classrooms only had fluorescents. Incandescent bulbs burned too hot, were too wasteful. They were only used for experiments.

Kira dancing in Derek’s loft, alight with wonder and joy, lights trailing behind her like stardust. Kira and Malia in this very same classroom, lightbulbs glowing, burning, shattering like lives winking out. The janitor had swept up this classroom; it’d taken Scott and Kira a week to clean up and find all the tiny shards in Derek’s loft.

That day at the loft felt like so long ago—not in the least because Scott had literally lost his humanity right after, and he wasn’t sure if he’d ever gotten it back. He has been part beast ever since the bite. Every day, he could feel pieces of himself sloughing off like eschar from a wound, the alpha taking his place.

“Scott!” Firmer this time, and definitely annoyed now. For a second Scott thought it was Malia (because it wouldn’t be Kira, not again, not for decades or even centuries)—but no, it was just the teacher.

This wasn’t a fairytale. There would be no kiss to lift the curse or still his shaking bones.

“I gotta go.” Scott couldn’t breathe. The walls closed in around him like a plaster and drywall cage. He jumped from his seat and bolted, (proverbial) tail between his legs.

“Scott, wait—”

But Scott barely heard her; he exploded through the door, into the halls, to the sombre outdoors. “Scotty!” Stiles yelled at his backside, but he was already gone, gone, gone.

 

He’d left his jacket at school. And his lunch. And his homework, his phone, his ghosts.

It was all right. Stiles would tell his other teachers that he was gone for the day, and Stiles would also mention it to his mom (if she noticed—she worked late tonight, after all). They’d give Scott his space. They were still too fragile, too tentative; they knew to leave each other well enough alone.

If something big came up, the pack would find him, even without his phone. For now, in the space between, Scott could just be—a boy, a beast, neither and both, contemplating the consequences of living.

He could go visit Allison’s grave. He could apologize to Erica and Boyd again. He could—

“Scott?”

—be busted by a deputy.

Parrish, off-duty and in plainclothes, ambled over from the crosswalk. He looked like he dreaded the answer a little but couldn’t help asking, “What are you doing out here? Aren’t you cold?”

Scott shrugged. He has been through a lot worse than walking around through drizzle without a coat. “It’s okay. I run warm.” Politeness and long habit made him add, “What about you?”

Parrish gingerly shrugged one shoulder. One hand was pressed against his other side, completely failing at looking casual. “Pharmacy. And coffee. I’m not sure which takes higher priority.”

“Pharmacy?” Parrish did look…vaguely gaunt and worn. Scott sniffed the air, catching the signs he’d blotted out, diluted in the wind as they were: blood, antiseptic, shallows breaths hissed through clenched teeth. “You’re hurt? I thought you—” he glanced around quickly and lowered his voice “—healed.”

Parrish grimaced. “Yeah, that’s not as consistent as I’d like. At least my…condition doesn’t preclude drug intoxication. Thankfully.

Scott didn’t even think about it, just stepped right up to the man. “Give me your hand.”

“Wait, you don’t have—oh.” Parrish stared, wide-eyed, at the lines of black spidering across their joined hands and disappearing up Scott’s sleeves.

The bite only allowed Scott to absorb pain. But pain, Scott had learned, usually brought about its own emotional cascade: anxiety, tension, fear. How much of it was carryover from Parrish, Scott couldn’t say.

It didn’t last long, maybe fifteen seconds. The silence lasted easily twice that as the tautness eased from Parrish’s face. When Scott finally let go, Parrish flexed his fingers, wonder in his eyes. “Thanks.”

“You could’ve drove.” He could’ve told…the sheriff, maybe. Or Scott’s mom.

“I needed the air.” This from the man who’d been wincing with every other step. Scott raised an eyebrow; Parrish coloured a little. “And, well, I’m out of gas.”

Some part of Scott realized that he was out of line; Parrish was an adult and could take care of his own shit. Even so, his mouth motored on: “Where’s your cruiser? How are you doing your job like that?” Old habits die hard, but he thought Parrish would understand.

“I’m on desk duty for…probably the foreseeable future.” A rueful smile. “I’m not exactly in field condition. Not really my colleagues’ favourite person right now either.”

“What? Why?”

“Erratic behaviour tends to make LEOs twitchy. Internal Affairs is coming down pretty hard.” Parrish looked like he was going to elaborate, but thought better of it at Scott’s expression. “It’s okay, Scott, really.”

“Sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say.

“I’m not.” Parrish looked over his shoulder with a lopsided smile. “Walk with me?” He tilted his head towards the Starbucks down the street, a fluidity to his movements that hadn’t been there seconds before. “Keep me company until I get better drugs. And I still need coffee. You drink coffee?”

It wasn’t an order, just a request. Scott could say no. But this made the second time that Parrish had gotten badly hurt for supernatural reasons without getting medical treatment, or even really looked at. If, god forbid, something happened—

No one should hurt alone.

“Uh, sure. Drip stuff is fine.” Those weren’t too expensive, even at Starbucks.

Parrish’s smile over his shoulder turned a little amused. “You must be a cheap date, huh?” He started down the street. Tiny tendrils of steam wafted from his jacket, too minute for non-supernatural eyes to see.

They walked in silence. Parrish held the door, a little bold in his painlessness. When Scott ordered his “medium coffee, whatever’s in the pot right now, I’m not picky” Parrish talked over him with a casual “actually, make it cold brew, leave room on the top.”

Scott gave him a look.

“It tastes better.” Parrish pulled out his wallet before Scott could protest. After a pause, he selected a credit card to hand to the cashier, and sighed a little when the purchase rang through.

Scott didn’t say anything, shuffling over to the pickup counter when his name was called. He took an experimental sip. It did taste better, smooth with a hint of sweetness. It tasted like guilt.

Parrish paused, looking a little apologetic over his Americano. “Sorry, did I embarrass you?”

“It’s fine.” Scott forced a smile, hid his face in his cup.

“Hey, Scott.” Parrish waited until Scott looked back up. “You okay?”

A beat. Scott raised his eyebrows and tried to look confused. “Yeah. Fine. Why?”

Another pause. Parrish’s mouth curled into something that wasn’t a smile at all. Finally, he said in a very quiet voice, “I’m glad one of us is.”

It took Scott a second to catch that. “Wait, you—?”

But the man’s expression had turned shuttered and abstract, eyes staring at something distant and gone. He drifted towards the far corner of the mostly-empty coffee shop, leaving Scott staring at Parrish’s retreating back.

Scott should’ve let him go. He knew he should’ve. But Parrish was—one of them. Not one of his, maybe. But _his_ was a pretty nebulous concept nowadays. Responsibilities, however, were easier to demarcate.

Those were always his. Alphas led the pack.

“Parrish.” Scott slid into the booth after him. “Is something wrong?”

Parrish’s eyes refocused. He took a moment to answer, like he hadn’t counted on Scott actually following, like he regretted bringing it up. His gaze darted around the languid Starbucks. “I asked you first.”

Was it that obvious? Scott’s face heated. “I said I’m okay.”

“I was there too, Scott.”

Scott frowned. “I thought you don’t remember things when…you know.”

Parrish’s bloodless smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t. That makes it worse.”

Scott sighed into his coffee. They morosely nursed their drinks for several minutes in silence. Scott’s stomach growled a little; he hoped Parrish didn’t hear. Any more kindness (charity) and he would splinter.

He wasn’t okay. But a leader never showed weaknesses. The others didn’t want him to to be afraid; they wanted him to help them be brave. The pack was on shaky enough ground as it was. How do you even bring it up? How do you say _hey, I still dream about that sword in my gut_? Or, _when you said you_ _’d kill your mom, you scared me_? Or even, _how did we let him get between us like that?_ How would, _could_ they talk about _hey, will you leave again_?

Because that’d require laying bare. And Scott wasn’t brave enough for that.

“I miss Kira.” That was safe.

“Is she coming back?”

“Yeah.” He forced a note of cheery certainty he didn’t actually feel. “She promised. It just…might take a bit.”

Long enough that her parents withdrew her from school. Scott had seen the Yukimuras in the office last week, hand in hand. Mrs Yukimura hadn’t wanted her husband to do it alone.

In the distance, her aura had looked like Kira’s. A little more contained, controlled embers instead of flames. Kira’s aura could—would—be like that one day. He hoped he’d still be around to see it. Werewolves lived long lives.

Kitsune lived longer.

Scott dropped out of history class after that. He’d never be able to look at Mr Yukimura in the eye again.

Parrish took the damning silence in stride, carefully changing the subject: “How’s your mom?”

“She’s okay. I mean, I didn’t tell her the details.” Scott took a shallow breath, the air stinging in his chest. “It’s…the usual, I guess.”

Parrish’s eyebrows hiked. “Can I ask why?”

Lydia’s scream, bouncing off the walls. The shaft of the spear, the silver-tipped point. The dissipating black fog, with not even a body left.

Was it killing if there was no body? Did Sebastian count as being alive?

“She didn’t…react very well when she first found out. I don’t want her—” _to look at me like that again_ “—to worry. _”_

How do you say, _Mom, I killed someone tonight_?

Parrish’s mouth twisted, a bitter slash in his face. “There’s no mandated therapy for offing resurrected ghosts, is there?” He chuckled, eyes distant and voice bleak. “Who would we even ask, right?”

It slipped out before Scott could stop it, a little plaintive: “Does it help? Therapy?” Parrish had killed Brunski, after all. And maybe (probably) others. He’d been a soldier.

Parrish blinked and looked back at him, face a sudden, blank mask. Scott’s throat closed. The air between them froze, turned to stone, pallor-grey like gravemarkers.

After a moment, Parrish looked down. “You’ve got your friends, though.”

“I guess.” He hoped. “I’m not their favourite person right now either.”

“That won’t matter.”

Scott shot him a sidelong look. “You sound so sure.”

“I am. I’ve lived it.” There was a conviction to the deputy’s voice now, a certainty that wasn’t there before. His eyes met Scott’s, a steady, clear green. “Whether cruiser or foxhole, I’m in this together with them. My life is in their hands and theirs are in mine. It's a simple sort of faith.”

He sounded so sure. It made Scott smile. His hands encircled his own cup like the tattoo on his arm. “You think they’d take the…other thing well?”

“I like to think so. Though I don’t really want to test out that theory given the first impression I made.” The conviction—and Parrish’s smile—dimmed, turning brittle. “I won’t tell them without your permission…but if I, I dunno, pulled people from burning buildings instead of bending steel bars. That’d go over better, right?”

And they were right back to the beginning. Scott’s own smile faltered. “You don’t need my permission.” His responsibility, again. The weight crushed him. He was so _tired_ of carrying other lives.

“I’m not asking you because you’re—” Parrish lowered his voice “—alpha. I’m asking you because I’d lead right to you. You’re, what, sixteen?”

“Seventeen.”

“Whatever. You should be dealing with Spanish tests and lacrosse games.”

Scott shrugged. “I dunno if that’s up to us.” They hadn’t exactly been…subtle. Sometimes he’d dream of mobs on his front step, too.

“Let me hope.” Another crooked smile. Parrish drained his coffee; it didn’t quite hide the sigh. “I need some time to figure my…stuff out too. I don’t exactly have a guidebook or anyone to ask.”

Asking didn’t really get Scott anywhere either. Werewolves went back centuries at least, and somehow Scott still felt like he was charting new territories every step of the way. “I hope they—” _are the people you think_ “—handle it well.”

“Me too. But I think they will. And now I really need those drugs.” Parrish clambered out of the booth, far less gracefully than when he entered. “Sorry. I wish I could help more.”

“It’s all right. It’s not up to you.” Scott’s smile didn’t feel as forced this time. “You want me to come with you?”

“I’ll be fine. You’ve already given me a boost. And, well…everyone has times when they need to be alone.” Now Parrish looked faintly guilty. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You didn’t.” Scott had followed him of his own volition. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“Any time. Good luck with school.”

And just like that, all the things he’d been running from rushed back: the overdue books, the scarlet-letter grades. Something cracked hard in Scott’s chest.

Deflect, deflect, deflect. A weak levity, something Stiles might’ve said: “You didn’t bust me for skipping.”

Parrish cocked an eyebrow over his shoulder. “After everything, Scott, truancy is the last damn thing on my mind.” He took a step, hesitated, and turned back. “I’m not…that much older than you, so I feel really weird giving you unsolicited advice. But, um, the…group leader thing…” He shrugged one shoulder a little helplessly . “You’ve earned it, but you didn’t… _choose_ it. Don’t judge your value by that label. It’s not…everything.”

Scott bit his lip, fighting salt in his eyes. _And what about you?_

It was all he could do to mumble back, “Yeah. You too.”

Parrish gave a little wave and trudged out of the Starbucks, off to lick his wounds alone. It was a kindness for Parrish to say what he did. Hypocritical too, maybe. He should take his own advice.

Scott looked back down at his coffee, his hands around the cup. A circle, like his tattoo. Unity. Whole. _Pack_. It shouldn’t hurt like it did.

He didn’t choose this, true. Still didn’t want it, most days. But someone had to. Power came with responsibility, and like it or not, now he was the one who _could_.

Maybe he couldn’t just be the alpha, but there was no room left to just be the boy. He’d have to be both, do better. _Be_ better, or fake it until it made no difference. He wouldn’t make them worry.

He could be human too.

**Author's Note:**

> Jordan’s “I only make 40k a year, maybe I should kill myself” is eminently relatable, and I’m sure the department budget did not pay for new tires to replace the ones Noah blew. :P
> 
> Also, hellhound healing is wildly inconsistent—Jordan got taken out by Theo’s rebar but healed up in the stairwell not too long after, but he was clawed up by Sebastian and remained so, and then he became _bulletproof_ in 6b. To save my sanity, I headcanon his healing only kicks in as he approaches death—i.e. it’d keep him alive but is pretty shitty otherwise. All irony to do with 6b was intentional, because I love pain. 
> 
> Feedback and concrit are always appreciated. :)


End file.
